I don’t answer. Because there’s no good answer.
Instead, I finish my coffee and head upstairs to say hi to Pops, leaving her humming some old country song about mistletoe and missed chances.
By the time the sun sets, the inn’s common room is quiet and I’m pulling on boots and gloves for the tree lighting.
Outside, I hear the town waking up to the evening. Children laughing. Carols drifting in the cold air. Someone yelling for me tohurry the hell upbecause the mayor’s getting twitchy.
I swing by the kitchen for my hat and find Loretta stirring something that smells like cider... with a kick.
“You look nice,” she says with a wink. “That jacket’s new. Trying to impress someone?”
“It was on sale,” I lie.
She snorts. “Have fun. And if you need rescuing from any overly eager holiday widows, just holler. I’ll throw myself on you.”
“Please don’t.”
She cackles as we step outside together, but by the time I reach the square, she’s already disappeared into the crowd.
The town square’s buzzing.
Strings of colored lights stretch from rooftop to rooftop, casting everything in soft gold and green. The tree in the center is massive, its branches wide and dusted with fresh snow.
Mason, our local lumberjack, is halfway up the ladder I hauled out, wrestling the star at the top while the mayor directs him from below like he’s orchestrating a military op.
“Sebastian!” Mason hollers. “Get over here. The star’s crooked, and the mayor’s about to lose his damn mind.”
I steady the ladder while Mason adjusts it. He hates this as much as I do, but he always helps.
The mayor, beaming and round, pats my arm like he always does and thanks me for my service. I nod politely and scan the crowd.
Families. Teenagers. Locals with cocoa.
No Willa.
That shouldn’t matter. But it does.
I check my watch, try to ignore the tightness creeping into my chest.
Then Loretta’s voice cuts through the square, bright and theatrical.
“There she is! Doesn’t she look like a snow angel?”
I look up.
Willa stands at the edge of the crowd, cheeks flushed, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. A soft cream coat cinches at the waist. Her scarf is red, thick, wrapped tight. Boots and tights. Her breath fogs the air.
She looks likewinter magic.
She shivers and adjusts her scarf, and I’m already moving.
Loretta catches her by the arm and leads her straight to me.
“Sebastian,” she sings, “look who came!”
Willa’s eyes meet mine, and the curve of her mouth sends something straight through me.
“Hey, ladder man.”
